


Sympathy Call

by NinondeLenclos, rosa_himmelblau



Series: Exequies [1]
Category: Wiseguy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 13:21:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9125494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NinondeLenclos/pseuds/NinondeLenclos, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosa_himmelblau/pseuds/rosa_himmelblau
Summary: When someone dies, old friends come to the funeral.





	

The familiar Latin words washed over Vinnie; he couldn't remember exactly how old he'd been when they changed the Mass to English, but he remembered hating it. And hating it still more when they changed the archaic English to modern. _Throw out the ceremony, throw out the mystery, shine a spotlight on all those lovely unfathomables and find that there's nothing there. "Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain!" "God explains all—next on _Geraldo_!" Religion should be a mystery in the dark, like sex. Take away the uncertainties and you take away the faith. Take away faith and what's left? Masturbation of the spirit—_  
  
Pete would like that turn of phrase hurt, hurt, hurt _does like, he really does know what I'm thinking, what I'm feeling. "Don't try to con me, little brother, I know you better'n Santa Claus."_ He'd been seventeen when Pete said that, hardly his "little" brother anymore, and yet, perpetually just that. _"May the perpetual light shine upon him—"_ he remembered that one, had asked Pete about it. _"Perpetual light? How's a guy supposed to get any sleep in an eternity of perpetual light?"_  
  
Shove. _"The light of God, you idiot infidel. You want to skip heaven because it might cut down on your nap time?"_  
  
_"I like sleeping."_  
  
_I knew the answer before I asked the question, but the metaphor really was unnerving. Perpetual light? But what about the things that belong in the dark? Maybe there aren't any in heaven, or maybe they're different, or maybe these're imponderables, too. Wanna give us a sign, here, bro? Am I on the right track?_  
  
The funeral was ending, his mother took his arm, not for support, just there. She'd insisted on the Latin and she was right, it was better. _Now to the graveside, final good-byes . . . ._

He looked around at the neighbors and relatives focusing their sympathy on his mother, avoiding his look— _fine, yeah, I don't deserve it, I'm a bad guy, I can't feel a thing, isn't that how it works?_ And Frank, whose eyes looked at him with love and sadness.  
  
He'd agreed with Sonny that feds at funerals were an abomination; in principle he still agreed. _If I'd been me, Hawthorn would've bought the farm for not knowing how to act at a funeral. If I'd been me—that's not right . . . ._ It always got confusing when he hadn't had enough sleep. _Everybody hurts, doesn't that deserve some respect? But if it wasn't tradition for feds to show up at mob-related funerals, I'd be alone here._  
  
He kept scanning the crowd looking for someone familiar, saw some high school friends, looking more uncomfortable than anything, saw Uncle Mike, looking out of place, saw Sonny—  
  
His eyes stopped. Possibly so did his heart. He just stared at the man looking at him, their eyes meeting. _Sonny. Am I hallucinating? How much sleep have I missed? No, that's Sonny—_ The dark eyes held his— _sorrow, condolence, love_ —and he broke contact, looked at Frank, who was looking at him with concern, reading something on his face he couldn't decipher. _What do I do, chase after him?_ _Motion to Frank? Let it go?_ He looked again, sure this apparition would be gone, a product of loneliness and wishful thinking, but no, he was still there, reading his thoughts, daring him to do something. This time he couldn't stop looking—  
  
_Graveside services aren't what they used to be,_ he thought as it ended and the crowd broke up, people going back to their lives. Sonny blended in with a small group of parishioners Vinnie didn't know; Vinnie watched as he retreated, picked him out as he got into a black Alfa Romeo _black for mourning?_ and drove away. Frank was at his side. "Mr. Terranova—" trying to sound harsh, sounding worried instead. Vinnie looked at him, looked back at the car, barely moving behind a slow-moving parade. _A short run across the grass, I could catch up—_  
  
"Mr. Terranova—" more insistent, more worried.  
  
Vinnie followed the trajectory of the car with his eyes, the winding path of the cemetery, the straight line across the graves; he moved away from Frank and his mother, heard his mother call his name, felt Frank grab his sleeve, move with him. He was close, the car moved by him, driver's eyes shielded by sunglasses. Vinnie reached out, touched the car as it drove past, watched it 'til it was out of sight; then he turned to look into Frank's concerned face. "It's a real car," he said, not sure what he was saying, or what he was feeling.  
---  
  
**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in Omerta, and co-written with the late Ninon de Lenclos. This story and "Twilight Confessions" were written in the flurry of first love. By this time I had made up my mind that just because everybody else believed Sonny was dead didn't mean I had to, which sort of became my mantra.


End file.
